Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

"Jesus, Callie." I don't know what else to say.

She shakes her head, once. "I never tried to find her, Smoky. I didn't feel it would be right to. I mean, I knew she had been adopted. I did know that much. Beyond that, I decided that she needed to be allowed to live her own life." She laughs, a painful laugh, like a knife cutting metal. "But I guess what they say is true, honey-love. You never get to stop being a parent, not even if you've given up your child. She runs a porn site, and she's probably dead because I'm her mommy. Isn't life a hoot?"

Her hands are shaking on the wheel. I look down at the photo again. This is what she'd been looking at when I came out of that bathroom. Callie, crass and irreverent and quick-tongued, so full of unbreakable confidence. How many times a year did she pull out this picture, look at it, and feel the sadness I'd seen on her face?

I look out the window. The rolling hills whip past us, along with the occasional exit sign. The day is engorged with sunlight gold, the sky perfect and cloudless. This is the kind of brightness people think of when they hear the word California .

Fuck perfect skies and sunlight. Some part of me wants to scream right now. Because reality keeps knocking down those pins, boy: Matt, Alexa, Annie, Elaina . . . now Callie. Instead, I try to put the force of what I'm feeling into my words.

"Listen to me, Callie. She might not be dead. They might just be screwing with you."

She doesn't respond. Looks at me for a moment. Her eyes are filled with despair. She drives faster.

We arrive in Moorpark about thirty minutes after we'd pulled away from the office, thanks to Callie's race-car driving. It's a small but growing city near Simi Valley and Thousand Oaks, a mix of middle and upper-middle class, and we are in the center of the suburbs. We pull up to the house. It's a two-story, painted white with blue trim. Everything is quiet. A neighbor across the way is mowing his lawn. The banality is surreal. Callie jumps out of her car, gun at the ready. A redheaded death machine driven by fear.

"Fuck," I mutter, getting out to follow her. This is all wrong. I look down the street, hoping to see Alan or James barreling after us, but the surburban quiet prevails. I follow Callie to the door. The neighbor who'd been mowing his lawn has turned off the mower and is backing away, eyes agoggle.

Callie pounds on the front door without hesitation. "FBI!" she yells.

"Open up!"

There is silence. Then we hear footsteps coming to the door. I look at Callie. Her eyes are wide, nostrils flaring. I see her hands grip her weapon tighter.

A voice comes through the door. Female. "Who is this?"

"FBI, ma'am," Callie says, finger poised outside her trigger guard.

"Please open the door."

I imagine the hesitation on the other side, can feel it. Then the knob turns, the door opens, and--

I am looking at Callie's daughter, alive, eyes wide and frightened at the sight of the guns in our hands.

She's holding a baby in her arms.

W E'RE INSIDE, CALLIEseated in the living room, head in her hands. I'm in the kitchen on my cell phone, talking to Alan.

"Nothing here," I say. "He was messing with Callie."

"James and I are about ten minutes out. You want us to keep coming?"

I look into the living room, at Callie and her daughter. The air is tense, filled with fear and the exhaustion of post-adrenaline rush.

"Nooo . . . I think the fewer people here, the better. Get back to the office. I'll call you."

"Got it."

He hangs up. I take a deep breath and walk into the emotional cyclone. Callie's daughter, whose name is Marilyn Gale, is frenetic and pacing, patting the baby on the back as she stops and starts, stops and starts. Patting more for her comfort than the baby's, I think. God, she looks like Callie. Something she doesn't seem to have noticed herself yet. A tad shorter, a touch heavier, her features a little softer. But the red hair is distinctive. And the face and figure have the same model-quality beauty to them. The eyes are different. Billy Hamilton's ghost, I muse. It's Marilyn's anger that reminds me most of Callie right now. She's pissed, the over-the-top pissed that sudden fear can create.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" she shrills. "Why two FBI agents show up at my door with their guns out?"

Callie doesn't respond. Her head is still in her hands. She looks drained.

I'm going to have to do the talking for now. "Do you want to sit down, Mrs. Gale? I'll explain everything, but I think step one is to try and relax."

She stops pacing and glares at me. It's almost enough to make me think genetics does play some part in personality. I see Callie's steel shining out from those angry eyes. "I'll sit down. But don't ask me to relax."

I give her a weak smile. She sits. Callie still hasn't lifted her head from her hands.

"I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, Mrs. Gale, and--"

She interrupts. "It's Ms., not Mrs." She pauses. "Barrett? You're the agent who was attacked by that man six months ago? The one who lost her family?"

I flinch inside. But nod. "Yes, ma'am."

This, more than anything, seems to drive the fear from her. She's still not happy, but her anger is tinged with compassion. The cyclone subsides. Just little flashes of lightning on the fringes now. "I'm sorry,"

she says. She seems to notice my scars for the first time. Her gaze on them is measured and careful, but not repulsed. She looks right into my eyes, and I see something there that surprises me. Not pity. Respect.

"Thank you," I say. I take a deep breath. "I'm in charge of the section of the LA branch of the FBI that deals with violent crimes. Serial murders. We're after a man who has already killed one woman that we know of. He sent an e-mail to Agent Thorne that indicated you were a target."

She goes pale at this, clutches her baby to her chest. "What? Me? Why?"

Callie looks up now. I hardly recognize her. Her face is haggard, drawn. "He goes after women who run personal pornography sites on the Internet. He sent us a link to your Web site."

Puzzlement replaces fear on Marilyn's face. Not just puzzlement. Out-and-out shock. "Huh? But . . . I don't have a Web site. I certainly don't have a porn site, for God's sake! I'm going to college--well, I'm on maternity leave right now. This is my parents' second home; they're letting me stay here for now."

Silence. Callie stares at her, taking in her confusion. Realizing, as I did, that it's the kind of bewilderment that can't be faked. Marilyn is telling the truth.

Callie closes her eyes. Some form of relief floods her face, mixed with just a trace of sadness. I understand. She's relieved that her daughter doesn't do porn. But now she knows there's only one reason that Marilyn has gotten Jack Jr.'s attention. Limp-kneed relief combined with soul-racking guilt, my favorite.

"Are you sure it was me this--man was talking about?"

"We're sure," Callie says, quiet.

"But I don't run a porn site."

"He has other reasons." Callie looks at her. "Were you adopted, Ms. Gale?"

Marilyn frowns. "Yes, I was. Why do you . . ."

Her voice trails off as she looks at Callie, really looks at her for the first time. Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open. I can see her examining Callie's face, can almost hear her doing the comparisons in her head. See in her eyes when the revelation hits.

"You . . . You're . . ."

Callie smiles, a bitter smile. "Yes."

Marilyn sits there, stock-still, stunned. Emotions fly across her face. Shock, wonder, grief, anger--none of them able to find a home. "I--I don't know what to . . ." In a single quick motion, she stands, clutching her baby. "I'm going to go lay him down. I'll be right back." She whirls away, moving up the stairs to the second floor of the house. Callie leans back, closes her eyes. She looks like she could sleep for about a zillion years. "That went well, honey-love."